Chapter Text

Inizio

( Beginning)

The ancient musings of poets long past always went on and on about music. About how songs, with a special magic of their own, could weave themselves into memories and emotion, tugging at heartstrings like nothing else could.

Sentimental drivel, in Ominis Gaunt’s opinion.

It was pure necessity that drove him up to the Music Room, situated high above the rest of Hogwarts. Ominis had unfortunately arrived on time. As soon as he stepped out of the family Thestral Carriage—sore, reeling, and dry-mouthed—Ominis heard the distant sounds of mingling and socialisation just behind the castle walls.

Ominis wasn’t ready for it. He wasn’t ready to mingle, to catch up, to compare schedules. He certainly wasn’t prepared for the inevitable interrogation the Sallows would jump him with in the Undercroft after all the letters he’d missed. Ominis was glad to share the space—really he was—but tonight, he just needed to find somewhere quiet. Somewhere else.

Ominis lingered by the Music Room’s entrance. This particular room had the tendency to ring, even if it was empty, probably borne from its carefully-constructed acoustics. He hadn’t been here since first year when music lessons were mandatory. Still, it smelled the same: old parchment, varnish, and something sweet that might have been rosin. 

Ominis inhaled slowly. The pain in his chest lessened by the smallest measure.

He hadn’t meant to find the piano. It had, rather infuriatingly, found him. Ominis let his wand lead him further into the room. He was hoping to find a quiet corner in which to open his trunk, change into his uniform, and compose himself until the Welcome Feast began.

Instead, he rammed his sore, aching side against the side of the piano.

“Merlin’s sagging—” 

The piano only growled its reply: a low, grating sound.

Ominis grumbled under his breath. Trying to ignore the pain blooming along his ribs, he skimmed his fingers over seemingly endless rows of ivory keys. The piano, in his opinion, was an instrument that insisted on itself. Why did it have to be so large? Take up so much room? Why couldn’t it be nice, small, and sensible, like a violin?

Ah, but she’d loved it.

The memory came unbidden. She’d had one of her own: an upright, tucked beside the fireplace in her secret cottage. Even at seven years old, Ominis had thought it ridiculous. She’d barely had room for her bed. 

Aunt Noctua. Ominis hadn’t thought of her in years, not since Father had first informed him of her death. She’d been the only good, gentle thing in his life–until she wasn’t.

Slowly, Ominis sat down. He skimmed his fingers over the keys. Ominis could almost hear her voice in the back of his mind: Go on, duck. Just make a little noise.

The starting note stumbled out after a few false tries. Then another. Then another. Every wrong note seemed to ring louder than the last. His teeth ground together with each discordant chord. His heart thudded against his ribs, each sour note grating against his very bones.

When the final jarring clash of notes became unbearable, Ominis swore, rose to his feet, and slammed the piano lid shut with a bang loud enough to wake the whole castle.

Brilliant, he thought sourly.

And that was, of course, exactly the moment when someone clapped.

“Bellissima!” A girl’s voice trilled. “Bravo. That was the most brilliant butchering I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Ominis whirled, wand outstretched. “Who’s there?”

Footsteps tapped lightly across the floor. Heeled shoes, with all of Hogwarts’ staircases? Ridiculous. 

“Chant,” she said breezily. “Allegra. We’ve only had the same classes for—oh, you know—six years?”

Of course he’d run into a Chant. Of course he’d run into the one girl in the school who was born and bred with music in her blood, along with an excess of money—and, apparently, a complete lack of respect for privacy. 

“I know who you are,” he grumbled. 

“Don’t mind me,” Allegra called. Her voice was coming from further away. “I’m only borrowing a bit of rosin.”

Ominis stayed perfectly still at the piano seat. He grit his teeth, twisted his fingers into his robes, and wondered how much longer it would take for Allegra to go away. 

“By the way," she added lightly. “Was that Field’s Nocturne you were slaughtering?”

At that, Ominis blinked. “I wouldn’t know.” 

“Well. It sounded like it.” Allegra snickered. “Almost.”

She spoke with the loftiness of someone who knew they were better than you. It reminded him as to why he’d never sought her company, not once, all these years. He ought to leave. He meant to. And yet, something in him — something small and sore and very tired — stayed rooted to the spot.

“Will you play it for me?” he mumbled.

There was a pause. Ominis surprised himself—and Allegra, too, judging by the way all her movements stilled.

“Please,” Ominis added, softer. He picked anxiously at the hem of his sleeve. “I’m just—trying to remember.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the low hum of the castle breathing around them.

Then, with a rustle of skirts, Allegra settled herself beside him on the bench. A faint scent of clementines and something flowery floated up from her robes. 

"Well," she said. "I never turn down a chance to show off."

Her fingers skimmed lightly over the keys, testing, warming up. And then—

Music. Proper music.

The first few notes alone were enough to haul Ominis’ memories to the front of his mind. The melody was a soft thing: rising and falling, delicate and dreamlike. Each note brought a sudden surge of memory. Aunt Noctua’s laugh. Her off-key humming, sharply contrasted by the masterful song she coaxed from beneath her fingers.

Ominis laid his hand lightly atop the piano, feeling the vibrations roll up his arm. Yes, this was it. This had been his lullaby once. A song that made him feel so effortlessly, unconditionally safe.

Safe. Gods. When was the last time he’d felt safe?

Abruptly, the song came to a stop. 

“I’m sorry,” Allegra mumbled. There was a wince in her voice. “I don’t know all of it.”

“It was enough.” His voice shook. 

They lingered at the piano for a few painfully silent moments. Then Allegra cleared her throat, shuffled beside him, and said,

“I’m actually surprised you would know the song.”

Ominis raised a withering brow. “Implying?”

“Nothing,” she said loftily. “I just never figured the great and terrible Ominis Gaunt would spend much time listening to Muggle music, that’s all.”

He frowned, turning his head slightly in her direction. “Muggle?” Ominis echoed.

“Irish, specifically.” Allegra giggled. “Congratulations. You’re a proper Blood Traitor now.”

Muggle music. Ominis’ most cherished childhood memories had been accompanied by songs written by the mundane, the allegedly unclean. He couldn’t help himself: he grinned, letting out a bout of laughter that bordered on manic. 

Allegra inched away from him. Ominis couldn’t blame her for that—he probably looked just as mad as he felt.

“It’s Muggle?” Ominis laughed. “You’re sure?” 

“Quite,” Allegra said tightly. “Listen, are you alright? I’m not trying to be cruel, but you look like absolute—”

“Teach it to me.”

“The song? Of course.”  She cleared her throat. Wood scraped against cloth as Allegra drew her wand. “The incantation is ‘Modulor Invoco.’ You point your wand at an instrument, focus on a song…”

Ah. The Chant family Charm. It had won them a plaque in the trophy room—along with heaps of Galleons. New money, Ominis’ Mother sniffed. Families like that can’t buy their way into class.

“I’m not talking about the Charm,” Ominis said. “I mean—properly. Like you did it.”

Allegra fell silent. “With your hands?” 

“I’m assuming you don’t play the piano with your tongue.” 

“But it’s piano. And you’re–” Allegra shuffled awkwardly on her feet. “I mean. You’re, well—”

A flash of irritation swept up Ominis’ spine. “Blind,” he supplied, spitting out the word. “Yes, I’m aware. If that’s such a dealbreaker–”

“No!” Allegra cried. “It’s not. I’m sorry . Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome, you know. I suffer greatly from it.”

Despite himself, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “So it seems.”

“You want to learn it the real way, then?” Allegra asked slowly. Her tone was ringed with intrigue. “Properly?”

Ominis nodded. “Properly.”

To his surprise, Allegra squealed, clapping delightedly. “I’ve never had a student before!” She gushed. “I’ll teach you. I’d love to. Shall we start our lessons on Fridays at six, then? Just before dinner?”

“Fridays,” Ominis grunted in agreement. 

Ominis got the sinking feeling that he’d just signed a devil’s contract. Currently, the devil came in the form of a girl in heeled shoes, citrus perfume, and an unfortunate allegiance to Hogwarts’ House of valour, volume, and very little planning.

But this was his seventh year. At the end of it, Ominis would need to follow his life plan. There would be no room for frivolity then. 

But for now, at least, he could spare a few hours on a little music.

Lento 

(slow)

Precisely twenty minutes into their first lesson, Ominis decided that Allegra Chant–and the entire Chant family, while he was at it–must be some sort of pain-loving weirdos, and that instruments were their favourite form of torture.

Their lessons began with an orientation. Allegra led him to the keys first. Ominis learned that there were two sets: the first, long and low, were called naturals. The second set–accidentals, Allegra called them–were short, raised, and placed a touch higher than the naturals. 

Beneath his feet were a set of three heavy pedals. Allegra called the leftmost Una Corda. The middle was dubbed Sostenuto. The last, to his amusement, was simply called the Sustain. 

After a long bout of fondling the piano, Allegra led his hands to a specific key. 

“This is middle C,” she said. “You need to remember where this one is. Consider it home, where your hands always start.” 

“Middle C,” Ominis echoed. He ran his finger over the key. “I’ll remember.”

“Good!” Allegra chirped. “Now. The matter of your posture.”

This, perhaps, was the most infuriating part of the lesson.

Allegra insisted that he sit up straight, but not rigidly, which he was apparently guilty of doing. His arms must be steady but not locked. His wrists should be held loosely, and his hands—which Allegra tore into—must be held in a graceful curve over the keys.

“Think of it like holding a ball in your hands,” Allegra said. “Like—a Snitch! Or a very small Quaffle.”

Ominis raised a brow. “Do I look like I know how to hold a Snitch?”

She scoffed. “Fair point. Like…holding an egg, then. Surely you’ve held an egg?”

Ominis, feeling more and more ridiculous by the minute, curved his fingers in the best approximate position to hold an egg.

“That’s too high,” Allegra said. “It’s got to be a gentle curve, not an arch.”

Ominis flung his hands up. “What’s the difference?”

Allegra huffed. “Like this.”

When her hand brushed against his, Ominis flinched. He tore away from her touch like it had burnt him. Allegra scrambled backward. Ominis, leaning as far away from her as possible, nearly sent them both toppling from the bench.

Horror clawed at his chest. Ominis could ignore and suppress things as much as he wanted, but the simple truth was this:

His body would always remember what his mind wanted desperately to forget.

He'd done it now. Come tomorrow, the Great Hall would no doubt be buzzing about Ominis and his strangeness. What kind of person couldn't stand to be touched?

And then:

“I'm sorry,” Allegra muttered.

Ominis swallowed. “No, I—” He drew a breath. “You have to tell me first. I can’t see you coming.”

“Alright.” Allegra shifted, and they were side by side once more. “Now?”

Ominis managed a nod.

Allegra was gentle when she slipped her hands under his. Ominis still couldn't help but stiffen under her touch. She moved slowly, bumping his palms up just so. Small, surprisingly calloused fingers brushed against his.

“There,” Allegra said. “Now, hold that.”

“For how long?”

“Every time you play,” Allegra said. “Now, shall we start you on a scale?”

She demonstrated, playing a tune that went up, then down.  Then she played it again: this time, there was no harmony, only a single scale leading the tune. 

“There’s a trick to it, though.” Allegra led him back to the piano. “When you get to the third note–this one–” She tapped it for effect. “–you need to replace your middle finger with your thumb, then start the next note with your pointer, and so on. Give it a try?”

Ominis did. Slowly, painstakingly. He reached the third note, fumbled for half a second, then managed to reposition his thumb and continue the rest of the scale. He did this thrice. On the third attempt, he managed to impress himself by going through it flawlessly–no stutter, no pause, no fumbling. C-D-E-F-G-A-B-C.

And then Allegra opened her mouth, and his victory was ruined.

“Well done,” she said. “Now the other way.”

The motion reversed. This time, he started with his pinky, and the switch of fingers happened on the fifth note, not the third. Ominis could feel his cheeks heating up with every stumble. Allegra’s gaze was on him. What, he wondered, did she think of him now?

Nevertheless, he got through it. C-B-A-G-F-E-D-C. 

And then it began all over again, only with his left hand. With practice, he learnt the variation, only stumbling thrice on the keys. Ominis considered it another small win. Maybe he wasn’t making as much of a fool of himself as he thought…

…until Allegra asked him to play the scale with both hands at once.

He raised his head. “Both of them?”

Allegra laughed. “You don’t think pianists play songs one hand at a time, do you?” 

Ominis scowled. 

“You can do it,” she said gently. “Just take it slow.”

He could remember the notes— that wasn’t the problem. It was the wretched logistics of it: the angles of his hands, the spacing between keys, the infernal slipperiness of his own nervous fingers. It had been hard enough for one hand. How would he fare with two? 

And yet, because he could feel her wretchedly earnest eyes on him, Ominis tried anyway. 

It took him four attempts before he could play the scale all at once. On the fifth, something clicked: the harmony, the rhythm, the placement. The last scale danced perfectly beneath his fingers. Up and down, up and down. He let the last note ring before slumping back, tired, into his seat.

“I’m making a fool of myself,” Ominis grumbled. “I never should have signed up for this nonsense.”

As soon as the words slipped free, he winced. Ominis wanted to throttle himself. Allegra had been patient with him all evening. Endlessly, surprisingly so. She’d never once reprimanded Ominis for his miserable efforts, only urging him to go on, to try again. 

Once again, his mouth was his own undoing.

“Just so you don’t forget,” Allegra said tightly, “I’m here for you . If you’re going to throw a fit every time it gets a little difficult, then I won’t bother wasting my time.”

She huffed, pushing the piano seat back and nearly sending Ominis toppling with the motion. He caught a corner of her robe, floundered, and managed to choke out a few words.

“You aren’t wasting your time,” Ominis blurted. “I didn’t mean to be so–” 

“Rude?” Allegra supplied. “Inconsiderate? Obtuse?”

Ominis allowed himself a wry smile. “All of the above,” he said. Softer, he added, “Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome, you know. It seems to have caught.”

Allegra sighed, but it was a fond sound. 

“Well, then,” she said brightly. “How about we learn your first song?”

⋆ 𝄞𝄢 ⋆

Ominis was grateful for dinner that night, happy to cool his weary hands on a glass of pumpkin juice. The Sallows arrived around the same time. Each twin carried with them a scent that belied their evening activities: Sebastian smelled of parchment, ink, and just a touch of dust; Anne smelled of cauldrons, smoke, and a mingling of various ingredients. 

As they settled into seats on either side of Ominis, Anne piped up, “Is that…sheet music?”

Ominis dove for the offending piece of evidence. Unfortunately for him, he was the furthest thing from athletic, and Sebastian was there first. 

“What’re you doing with sheet music?” He asked. Amusement tinged his tone. “And music books! Have you found a new calling, Ominis?”

“It’s an extracurricular,” Ominis spat. “A cultured one, thank you, not that any of you brutes would know a thing about culture. Give those back.” He jabbed his wand into Sebastian’s side. “They’re loaners.”

“A new extracurricular? In our NEWTs year?” Anne clicked her tongue, but began to busy herself with filling her plate. “I think you’ve finally cracked.”

⋆ 𝄞𝄢 ⋆

He knew the nightmare was coming. 

Ominis was torn from sleep by his own memories. He felt the ghosts of a spell around his throat. Something was burning in his ears: clawing, tearing, stealing away the last of his functioning senses. In the next second, the world was empty, and he was left blind, deaf, and mute.

And then he woke up. 

Silently, to his great relief. The other boys in the dorm were sound asleep. Teenage boys were cruel creatures, and no amount of pity would save Ominis from their ire if he woke them up in the middle of the night.

To his left, a blanket ruffled. Sebastian, voice thick with sleep, asked, “Y’kay?” 

“Yeah,” Ominis whispered. “Sorry.”

Sebastian only grunted, turned over in his bed, and was silent.

Sleep did not come to Ominis for many hours yet. Ghosts danced along the edges of his mind, taunting him with memories of borrowed wands, screaming strangers, and a choice: them or you. He struggled to regain his breath. Still, his waking nightmare raged on, flashing to memories of Platform 9 and ¾. The family carriage would be waiting for him there. And every year, at the end of every term, Ominis—like the fool he was—would submit.

He drew in a deep breath. Without meaning to, Ominis’ fingers began dancing along his sheets. Thumb-pointer-middle-switch. Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do . Again and again he tapped, soothed by the motions, until sleep reclaimed his senses once more.